Casanova's Curse
by Somewhere in the Stratosphere
Summary: "You're on his arm when he strolls in." A night out, from the point of view of an ex.


Disclaimer: Even though I don't actually use names, the characters are recognizably not mine. They are the creative property of Russell T Davies, thought don't even ask me if I think he deserves them. The italicised lyrics are also not mine. They belong to Carrie Underwood and are part of her song "Cowboy Casanova".

Criticism is always appreciated, and constructive criticism is, of course, best. I hope no one is looking at this and thinking it's new because they don't recognize this author's note! I was just doing a bit of spring cleaning on some of my writing accounts and noticed a couple of grammar errors in this that needed fixing. I lost my original author's note and disclaimer in the process.

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You're on his arm when he strolls in. You're cute, that much is true. Your suit's immaculate and that purple is perfect on you. You've taken off your suit jacket and the rest of your outfit screams "fuck me!" I can see the appeal. The way he's leering, I can imagine what he's thinking. I wonder how long it'll take him to get you out of that waistcoat. I can't imagine you'll let him pop the buttons off. Then again, after he kisses you, you might not care. I didn't.

You're kind of stoic. That's a change. He usually likes them a bit…..bouncier. They're always a bit easier. Fewer inhibitions. Your posture is textbook perfect, even in the worn out booth that he's always favoured.

He's leaning across the bar now, flirting outrageously with the bartender while he orders your drinks. If you've noticed, it doesn't show. He swaggers back to the table and sets your pint down. You wrap a hand around it immediately but don't bring it to your mouth. Instead you sit with it in front of you, one hand wrapped around the frosted glass and the other resting lightly on the table top.

His hand creeps over to play with your fingers absently while he sips his water. His eyes have strayed to the dance floor. There aren't many dancers but some of the few are pretty enough to attract his attention. His hand stops playing with yours and he gives it a gentle squeeze. That's new. Still, he gets up and heads to for the floor. A pretty red-head catches his eye and vice-versa. She tugs on his sleeve and he grabs her hips to pull her in.

You're not really paying attention. You seem to be playing with a PDA. I can't decide whether to be proud of you or pity you. Either you really don't care or you're trying to distract yourself because you care too much. I hope it's the former but that's not likely.

I make up my mind and walk over to the stereo. The owner won't mind if I fiddle with it a bit. She remembers him too. I manage to find the song I want and turn up the speakers.

"_He's like a curse, he's like a drug"_

It's too late for you. I know that. I'm sorry. Maybe you'll understand though. Maybe you'll appreciate the sentiment.

"_I see that look on your face. _

_You ain't hearing what I say"_

The red-head doesn't get it. I'm tempted to yell at her. You just smirk though. Maybe you've figured it out. He looks over at you quizzically. He turns an ear to the music and listens to the lyrics. He stops. His red-head isn't happy. She keeps pushing him to dance more but he's still frozen. He's locked eyes on you and paled just the slightest bit.

Why? It doesn't fit the pattern. The Casanova I remember wouldn't bat an eyelash at this.

What did you do to him?

The red head is stamping her foot as he walks away from her. He doesn't seem to care. He's headed toward you with a look that I would almost say is shame, maybe guilt. You raise one eyebrow perfectly. For a brief moment I wish I could arch mine up that skilfully. He's talking now. I think he's saying you name but I can't make out what it is. I think it ends in an 'o'.

You're smiling now. Not that smirk but an actual smile, soft and fond. He's still babbling when your hand leaves its place on the glass and clamps over his mouth. He shivers but I don't think it's from the cold.

You whisper to him and his eyes light up in a way I've never seen before. From where I'm sitting it almost looks like...like he loves you. I didn't think it was possible but the more I look, the more certain I become.

The two of you stand and he holds out your suit jacket for you to slip back into. In turn, you help him slip into his old military coat. I figured out long ago that it's air force but I can't for the life of me understand why he would own a coat that old.

The pair of you has moved to the door now and he's holding it open. You smirk is back but it's tinged with an undeniable fondness as you brush past him, deliberately trailing a hand along his. His leer is back too, but it's different from the one he usually wears. Right now, he only has eyes for you.

After you've left I keep thinking. I'm picturing the looks, the way he froze at the song lyrics, and those softly whispered words. Maybe you've done it. Maybe you, the quiet and proper young man, tamed the Casanova.

You walk into the bar again. You're not on his arm this time. There's a rodent-like man walking beside you. You both look completely shattered. You seek out a booth, a different one this time, and the rat brings over two pints and slams his back before he even sits. This time, instead of letting it sit, you drain yours too.

There's no fond sparkle in your eyes. In fact, they almost look dead. Tired and dead. Your face is blank and instantly I know why. I was wrong. He's gone off with someone else, hasn't he? You haven't broken the curse.

My heart breaks for you. The 'I told you so' that usually springs to mind doesn't apply here. I watch you and the rodent-like man throw back drink after drink and then stumble out together when you decide it's been enough.

In that moment, as I watch your perfect composure vanish, I hate Casanova more than I ever have before.


End file.
